Forlorn Hope

One day, while Zarathustra* was walking through the backstreets of The City of Men Who Sold Their Souls, he came across a bum lying hopeless in the street. He greeted the bum whom he found out was a woman. She was too weak to answer. Her features were charming. She was very beautiful. But Zarathustra could read her story in her tired eyes: she used to have a dream of her own, but in this city, the little flame inside her burned out. Zarathustra felt the greatest grief… he was so frustrated at the sight of the withering flower that had struggled among the thorns, he almost cried. Yet, he pulled himself together and in a mighty fit of anger he kicked the woman with all his might in the ribs! "Rise, get up !", he shouted. "Wake up from your slumber fair one... You must be strong to get over the effects of the poison the evil creatures of the dark holes have injected in your veins…” The poison had proven so strong that it had crippled her feet. The fair one, supporting herself on her arms, head bowed, whispered in a feeble voice: "I am not that strong". Zarathustra watched the fair one drag herself away feeling the greatest grief and frustration... His eye was tearless and his head ached unbearably. He climbed to his cave in the mountains thinking about who is to be blamed. He loved his dream so much… He had to realize his ‘Uber Mensch’. The grief built up to an extent Zarathustra could not bear ........… The mountains echoed Zarathustra’s anguished "Kill the Beast” cry while Zarathustra lay on the ground without consciousness.